


Conquer the Bridge

by girlfromcarolina



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Clint likes it dirty, Comeplay, Get Together, M/M, Musical Instruments, Phil has hidden talents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/girlfromcarolina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson never said he was <i>dating</i> a cellist.  Clint's the first to discover his secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquer the Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between 'Thor' and 'The Avengers', but no spoilers for either movie. It started off as a silly little idea and grew larger as it wouldn't let me go... Thanks to matalinolukaret for taking a look at this! All mistakes are mine.
> 
> The bridge is the piece on a cello holding the strings away from the body.
> 
> Cross-posted to [LJ](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com/330139.html).

**time to show the world we’re civilized**

Johanna Summerland is the best cellist on the west coast. Trained since she was in grade school, a classical prodigy. To the disappointment of many, she’d taken four years off from music to pursue a college degree at Amherst: a shot at a normal life away from ambitious parents and managers. She’d succeeded, but the separation had given her a new appreciation for her talent, and she’d returned to the cello more dedicated than ever.

She’s also stunning. Waves of dark hair, green eyes. A long, slender figure that’s draped in black for concerts, but wrapped in multiple colors and patterns in her down-time. Johanna’s a dream-come-true for symphony promoters; she looks like a movie star and sells tickets in droves.

Johanna is accomplished, intelligent, and radiant. But right now, Phil Coulson wants to snap her prized pernambuco bow over his knee and hurl the pieces at her head. Outwardly, his lip barely twitches.

“You haven’t been practicing,” Johanna says, hands on her hips. 

“I sent you my practice logs,” Phil responds, “but there were a number of situations at work—”

“It’s not as if the world was ending, right?”

SHIELD had gotten into a few sticky situations, Phil admits, but no—none of them could have brought about total annihilation. And although the Tesseract’s energy fluctuations have been unpredictable lately, it’s not yet cause for alarm.

“Not this week.”

“Then you should have practiced more,” she says and reveals the slight tilt to her mouth. Amusement at his expense. Fantastic.

The principal cellist of the Portland Symphony Orchestra is toying with him. It’d be an attractive quality, Phil thinks, if he and Johanna were sleeping together, but his analysis has told him that Johanna is bisexual with lesbian preferences. What’s more, she doesn’t sleep with her students. However, he suspects that she and Pepper Potts engaged in something of an experimental relationship while they were coeds in Boston, which provides Phil with a spine-meltingly hot visual.

Just because he prefers men doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate soft, beautiful, long-limbed women wrapped around—

“Coulson.” Johanna taps her bare foot on the parquet, and Phil’s glad he’s holding a large wooden instrument between her impatience and his groin. “It’s not that you haven’t been coming along well. For someone with little musical experience, it’s remarkable,” she admits. Phil thinks of the hours he spent – off the clock – pulling up videos and notes on classical music. For what’s supposedly a hobby, Phil’s put in a hell of a lot of time. “It’s just that you push yourself so hard, trying to learn so quickly. I’d kinda gotten used to that.”

“I was under the impression that one is meant to excel at hobbies.”

“Phil,” she sighs, curling aqua-polished nails under her chin, “have you looked up the word ‘hobby’ in the dictionary lately?”

He takes it as a suggestion and a moment later he’s reading the entry he’d pulled up on his smartphone.

“So, you don’t need to excel so much as enjoy yourself. Are you at least having fun with these lessons?”

“Of course,” Phil says without needing to think about it. “When the dir—my boss—asked me to consider taking up a hobby, I didn’t think I’d get so much satisfaction out of it.”

Johanna laughs, the neck of her gray and yellow striped shirt hanging off her bare shoulder. “That’s something, I suppose. Should we get back to work then?”

#####

When Pepper first broached the idea of cello lessons, Phil thought she’d finally lost it. Or, that Stark had replaced her with a life model decoy and was using it to mess with him. But Pepper assured him she was serious, and as an incentive she’d flown him out to Portland to watch one of Johanna Summerland’s performances. When he got home that night with Johanna’s card in his pocket, he’d immediately started examining his schedule for possible lesson times.

It was easy to convince the director; Fury had been casually, and then _not_ so casually suggesting Phil find non-agency ways to fill his spare time for a while. (Apparently watching training exercises and sparring with Clint Barton didn’t cut it as hobbies in Fury’s mind.) The director had even authorized used of a jet and a crew every week—barring immediate foreign and/or domestic peril—so Phil could fly to Oregon.

And the lessons are amazing. Johanna’s eyes are as bright when she’s teaching as when she performs, patient as she guides Phil through the workings of a difficult instrument.

The remainder of tonight’s lesson is the musical equivalent of Simon Says; Johanna with her cello and Phil using one of her three spares. They face one another across her practice room, Johanna calling out and playing a chord for Phil, and waiting for him to duplicate it. One chord, then two, until Phil’s playing entire lines of music. Phil stumbles, fingers sweaty around his bow, but manages to follow Johanna’s example for a good ten minutes.

At times, Phil gets distracted watching the fluid motion of Johanna’s bow across the strings and the tender way her fingers hold it. An art form, no matter the music played as a result. He’s enthralled and aroused, but conscious of the reason behind why Johanna’s movements have such an effect on him.

He’s picturing different fingers—a different bow.

Capable fingers, thick knuckles and wide wrists; forearms bare or wearing a sheath than conceals an extra blade; hands that settle scores instead of playing them. A bow that’s a cross between form and function, as deadly and precise as the man who wields it. Phil wears the weight of that man’s gaze between his shoulderblades at all times, even when the man with the bow is nowhere in sight.

As stunning as Johanna is, she ceases to exist in Phil’s mind for a brief moment. Nothing exists except for Barton and the lust Phil’s been battling since New Mexico.

“Since you’re obviously off in space somewhere, I think that’s a good place to stop.”

When Phil looks up, Johanna’s already putting her cello in its case.

“I’ve still got a lot on my mind,” he explains. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s your lesson,” she says. “Just remember that hobbies are supposed to _clear_ your head. Are you flying in next week?”

“Thursday, barring any—”

“Any catastrophes at work, yes, I know. Just keep me posted,” Johanna tells him, taking the bow from Phil’s fingers and storing it in his case. Because of Phil’s extraordinary commute (and the fact that Pepper’s vowed to pay for a replacement if something happens), she lets him take one of her spare cellos back and forth each week. “And no more skipping practice unless it looks like the world’s about to end.”

“End of the world,” Phil repeats. “Got it.”

#####

**hit me baby; you’re the gun and i’m the bullseye**

Phil Coulson is beautiful from far away. Clint should know; he’s spent hours getting a birds-eye view of the agent-in-charge of SHIELD’s Pegasus facility.

This gig isn’t the most exciting one he’s ever pulled, but it keeps him stationed in the same place as Agent Coulson for an extended period of time, which he’s never had the luxury of before. Not that he thinks Coulson ever considers that kind of thing; Clint’s aware that his obsession is rather one-sided. Just because Coulson has an uncanny ability to look up and find Clint’s nest without any hesitation, or that Clint’s opinion is always the first Coulson asks for in a tactical situation, doesn’t mean there’s anything behind the gestures.

Walking through Pegasus’ living facilities (someone had designated Clint as a top-tier agent which had earned him a private room instead of space in the barracks), Clint pauses at Coulson’s door. It’s unmarked, but he’s walked past here with Coulson enough times to single out this door from a hallway of identical ones.

Tonight when he stops, he hears music. Classical music—the best Clint can do is guess that it’s something involving a stringed instrument. Whatever Coulson’s listening to on the other side of the door, Clint admires the song choice. It’s a strong piece; when Clint closes his eyes, he pictures a leader, the music playing while the capable man in his vision gives orders during battle. And he finds he kind of likes it.

He could come up with an excuse to knock and interrupt whatever Coulson’s doing. Would Coulson take a look at candidate files for the new surveillance team facility director Hill asked him to put together? Would he like to watch one of the few not-blocked satellite TV stations with Clint? Would he mind if Clint walked in and sucked his dick?

Although that last suggestion might be a sign that Clint’s spent too much time looking down on people instead of interacting with them. When he’s aloft for most of the day, his social skills tend to deteriorate and he gets a little desperate.

Still trying for an excuse and coming up blank, Clint’s about to knock anyway when he notices the song has stopped. There’s a clunk and a soft thud, a fainter sound that might be a sigh, and then nothing. He drops his hand and turns away, knowing he’ll see Coulson at daybreak.

The mystery of the music can wait for another night. Curiosity may have killed a few cats, but birds always stick their beaks where they don’t belong.

#####

Clint hears the music again three nights later after a day filled with headaches for everyone. The Tesseract’s energy had flared, someone reported an intruder in the lower levels (though no one have been able to track the intruder down, as if they’d disappeared), and Coulson had been holed up with Hill in her office for most of the afternoon and evening.

He’s passing Coulson’s door when the sound hits. Clint smiles, thinking to stay a while and listen, but instead of the soft hum of a famous concerto, the music coming through the door sounds faulty, discordant. 

The music stops and starts in strange places, not always the same tune when it picks back up. He’s no expert, but at times the piece seems out of key, off-tempo, as if the instrumentalist is having trouble remembering their tune. Clint wonders if Coulson’s pulled up a video on his screen—recon on a musician-turned-criminal, maybe? They work for SHIELD; stranger things have happened.

Again, he’s tempted to knock. Interruptions mean silence, and silence would be better for Coulson’s ears than whatever recording he’s got playing. But again the music stops before he expects it to. Another thud, and Clint hears something harsh—a bitten-off curse? Whatever Coulson’s watching or listening to, it’s not making him happy.

 _I could help him with that_ , the brazen part (the majority, really) of Clint’s mind suggests. _In so many ways._

Besides, he’d barely seen Coulson all day. That’s unusual and Clint feels a little off balance, the way he only does when he’s got two feet on the floor and Coulson staring him down.

So he knocks only to have the door open under his knuckles, and he stumbles forward.

Coulson looks him up and down. “Barton. Something I can do for you?”

“Yeah.” So many things, he adds silently. “I thought, if you weren’t busy”—Clint scrambles—“I could talk to you about getting new rappelling lines. Do I need to make a requisition request?”

Clint is asking about _rope._ He could kick himself—he’s flexible. Or hang himself with the rope he’s about to requisition.

Coulson stares at him, mouth flat, blue eyes a sky Clint would like to soar in. Then he does something very un-Coulson-like when he sighs and rubs his hand over his face.

“You don’t need to make a formal request,” Coulson says, and only then does Clint take a mental step back and notice that Coulson’s not wearing a jacket or tie. Or a belt for that matter. In Agent Coulson’s world, that’s one step above buck naked. “Just email me a list of what you need and the specs, and I’ll make sure you get them.”

Because Clint has no idea what to say, he settles on, “Thanks, boss. It’s just that the lines I’m using now have seen better days and—”

Coulson stops him, palm open between them. “Whatever you need, Barton.”

“Everything alright, Coulson?” Clint asks, collecting puzzle pieces and putting them together to see that something’s up with his handler.

“Fine,” Coulson says with enough effort to convince anyone else. Clint’s been at his side—or watching from above—too long to be fooled. “I was just on my way to get some coffee.”

“Don’t you plan on sleeping?”

“Not tonight.”

“Oh.” If Tasha were here, she’d tell Clint what to say. Or roundhouse-kick him for acting like a moron. “Isn’t there a coffee maker in your room?” Clint has one, which he thought was a nice gesture even if the grounds that came with it sucked.

Coulson’s grin is barely a curve, but it’s better than nothing. “I could use the walk,” he says. “What about you? Turning in for the night?”

“Nope.” Clint moves back, giving Coulson space to step into the hallway and close the door behind him. “But a walk sounds good.”

#####

Tasha helps him get it. When Clint asks where she got the idea, she tells him, “I called someone who knows these things,” which is good, because Clint doesn’t know anyone like that and he’s reluctant to involve another agent. He doesn’t ask Nat how she’s able to track it down in the middle of an assignment, or how she gets SHIELD to deliver it to him at Pegasus. People tend to let Natasha do whatever she wants.

Clint brings it to Coulson’s room the same night, knocking without hesitation.

“Coulson?”

The door opens, Coulson half hidden behind it, leaving room for Clint to enter the suite. Clint cases the room in seconds, surprised by what he finds.

A cello propped up against the wall, a chair in the middle of the room. A bow, long and wooden. A music stand with a screen where the pages should be, notes floating across the display. And Coulson standing next to Clint with his dress shirt undone, gray undershirt tucked into his navy slacks. Barefooted.

Between his legs, Clint’s dick throbs.

“Did you need something, Barton?” Coulson smirks. “More rope?”

“No, I’m good with rope,” Clint says, allowing himself to smile. He ignores the elephant—the stringed, wooden, hourglass-shaped elephant—in the room, and offers Coulson the package in his hand. “I came to give you this.”

Coulson takes the CD case from him and scans the cover, eyes caressing the studio-shot image of a gorgeous brunette in a way that burns the tips of Clint’s ears and has his fists clenching. He sees Coulson watching his reaction, corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Something funny, Coulson?”

“This is a strange choice of gift.”

“I caught your music the other night,” Clint explains. “Actually, more than once. I liked what I heard the first time, but the second…” He stops because Coulson’s not angling for a critique of his tastes. “I just figured you’d enjoy the CD. It’s a rare live session, or so I’ve been told.”

In most of Clint’s imagined scenarios for how his gift would be received—seven out of ten potential outcomes, to be exact—Coulson thanks him for the CD and sees him out with some innocuous comment about seeing each other the next day. Another two scenarios left Clint and Coulson talking for a few minutes before Clint left on his own. The last scenario was the long-shot, a vivid scene involving Coulson’s desk, a tie, and a lot of lightly freckled skin exposed to Clint’s mouth, and that one was mostly dreamed up while Clint was in the shower.

He’s not expecting Coulson to ask, “What were you going to say about the second night?”

Clint has to drag his brain away from that last scenario to think about his answer. “Just that it seemed like the person playing was getting frustrated— they weren’t focused.”

Coulson’s eyes go soft. “And you determined all this after listening in from the hallway?”

“Sir.”

“That’s actually impressive, Clint,” he says, and Clint’s face warms at the casual use of his first name. “Where’d you get this CD?”

“Tasha.”

“Agent Romanoff’s supposed to be in Central America.”

Clint shrugs. He hardly needs to explain Natasha’s modus operandi to Coulson. “Tasha said she had good intel about that cellist. Not sure where she heard it from.”

“My guess would be Pepper Potts,” Coulson says, “Stark’s CEO.”

“Yeah, well, this Summerland woman is supposed to be really good.”

“She’s fantastic.”

“Oh.” Clint can’t help sighing. Coulson probably thinks he’s losing his edge, delivering gifts and _swooning_ out of jealousy. “If you have that CD, I can probably get my hands on a different one.”

“So could I,” Coulson says matter-of-factly. “She and I know each other quite well.”

That’s a surprise, and it’s not one that has Clint jumping. Just the opposite—his boots feel like they’re filled with lead. 

“Miss Summerland and I…”

Clint’s getting a bad feeling, wishing the ceiling were higher or the windows were open. Not that he’d get far if he chose that escape route; he’s never been able to evade Coulson for long. Coulson’s wise to most of his hiding spots on the helicarrier, too, but leaves Clint to his privacy unless he’s desperately needed for an op.

“She’s my instructor.”

“Instructor for what?” Clint asks, and then feels like an idiot when Coulson makes an obvious gesture to the cello which Clint had been doing an admirable job of ignoring until now. “You’re taking _lessons_? For how long?”

“A few months now. I’m surprised you didn’t notice me sneaking away from Pegasus once a week.” Clint had, but Phil leaving SHEILD to take cello lessons were not two dots he would have connected. “I’m lucky,” Coulson adds. “Miss Summerland is one of the best.”

One thing immediately makes sense. “So that was you playing when I came by?”

“Practicing,” Coulson says, chin falling to his chest. Clint never meant to embarrass the man. “If I’ve had a rough day, it shows when I practice. I guess that’s what you heard when you said I sounded like crap.”

“I didn’t say—” Clint starts to say before he cottons on to Coulson’s smirk. “Okay, you weren’t great the second time, but the first time I heard you, it was amazing.”

The conversation that follows goes beyond either of Clint’s two ‘talking’ scenarios; sitting on the couch and listening to Coulson describe his lessons with Johanna Summerland. The possessive streak buried in Clint’s heart flares red at the thought of Coulson allowing a cellist, someone outside their isolated world of spies, to see a side of him he’s never shared with Clint or anyone else at SHIELD. Never being able to hold on to much as a kid left him with what the agency shrinks call a slight attachment disorder, but Clint knows he’d react badly to losing Phil, whether it’s programmed into his psyche or not.

He laughs when Coulson explains how Fury had made finding a hobby more of an ultimatum than a suggestion.

Clint pouts. “I thought your hobbies were watching me on the range and finding all of my good hiding spots.”

“Not according to the director, but next time I’ll lobby harder to make that an option.”

“Good,” Clint says, “it’s less of a commute.” He tends to hone his skills in private, preferring late night or pre-dawn sessions when the range is quiet and no one’s there to watch. Other people tend to be _fascinated_ by what Clint’s always thought of as a mix of physics and planning, not a trick. Coulson understands that, and he’s never felt rattled or put on display when Coulson’s on the range (not always lurking in plain sight, either). If anything, Coulson’s presence sharpens his focus.

“It’s late,” Coulson finally says as he stands and moves toward the door. 

Clint’s not ready to leave, but he can tell Coulson’s beat. Anyone else would think Coulson’s as awake and alert as ever, but Clint reads exhaustion in the way the agent’s eyelids are slower to open after he blinks, the way his throat tightens to suppress a yawn.

At the door, Clint stops and turns. “No walk?”

Coulson smiles, swaying ever so slightly towards the door. “Not tonight. You?”

“It’s pretty quiet,” Clint says, “might do me some good.”

“Feels too quiet.” For a moment Coulson looks past him, down the hallway of identical doors. “Get some sleep, Barton.”

As dismissals go, that one’s not too bad, Clint thinks. “Sure thing, boss.”

#####

“It’s open.”

Clint walks in while there’s a break in the music, quickly shutting the door behind him. (No sense letting Coulson’s secret hobby become gossip.) Coulson’s exactly where Clint expects him to be: facing his digital music sheets with the cello between his legs.

Clint grins. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Hearing Coulson play through the door doesn’t compare to watching him. Clint slides into an armchair as Coulson (Clint wonders if he can start thinking of him as _Phil_ after he’s shared so much over the past few nights) draws his bow across the strings. Phil’s never picked up Clint’s bow—he respects Clint’s equipment as if it’s an extension of the man—but he’s nursing a sudden urge to place it in Phil’s hands and watch him manipulate it. And then he shivers at that piece of archery-inspired pornography.

The song Phil’s playing is beyond his recognition, but it’s more evocative than the first piece he’d heard, executed more smoothly than the second. Clint’s drawn more to the man than the song, though. He knows Phil gives 100% of himself to the job, and it’s enlightening to see him commit the same energy to something as unrelated to national security as music.

Clint would gladly watch Phil do nothing (and has, from a perch, once or twice), but that’s beside the point. His infatuation had been kindled from a distance, watching Coulson work from afar. Looking out for him before Coulson ever knew he existed. But over the past few nights, Clint’s beginning to realize that Phil’s just as beautiful up close, in more than the physical sense (because Clint was _so gone_ for Phil’s clean, chiseled looks ages ago).

Phil’s eyes are glued to the notes on his screen yet his arms move fluidly with the bow and over the cello’s neck. He leans into each chord as if he’s merging with the instrument.

Yeah, Clint has _got_ to get Coulson to try archery in the near future. That’ll be hot beyond words.

Phil clears his throat, startling Clint. “Want to give it a try?”

Instead of looking at the cello, Clint’s gaze is locked on Phil. “Not my kind of bow, boss.”

With nothing but a look from Coulson, Clint finds himself sitting in the chair and letting his boss maneuver the cello between his legs. He’s inexplicably nervous to hold it; SHIELD sees fit to equip him with the best in archery tech, so he should be able to handle a musical instrument. But it’s Phil’s (he thinks), and his hands are careful, deliberate.

His body’s not prepared for the way Coulson steps behind him, back-to-chest, and presses until there’s no space between them. Phil sets the bow in his hands and guides the other one to the neck, shaping his fingers around Clint’s in both spots.

“So this is the way she taught you.” Clint exhales, relaxes back into Coulson’s chest. “And you’re _not_ sleeping with her?”

“Focus, Barton.”

“Yes, boss.”

Clint has no idea what he’s doing; Phil’s moving his hands and fingers like a puppeteer. He does know that the sounds coming from the cello shouldn’t be called _music_ , but he doesn’t care because Phil’s wrapped around him, whispering instructions in his ear. Clint’s brain is stuck on how _fucking ridiculously hot_ that would be if they were in bed together. Not playing the cello.

And speaking of the cello, it’s rather conveniently placed, hiding the swell of Clint’s cock where it’s pressing out against his zipper. But the friction he gets from its bulk is teasing at best, and he’s trying his best not to rub against its body. The cello is Phil’s—Clint shouldn’t be humping the damn thing.

But he can’t help it. Phil’s breath is hitting the back of his neck, instructions a rumble that Clint’s barely paying attention to, and his chest is folded tightly over Clint’s shoulders. If Clint couldn’t guess how valuable something like a cello is, he’d dump it on the floor and drag Phil to bed; feel that same weight along the length of his spine as Phil presses him face-down into the mattress…

Clint’s too far gone to have any control over his brain-to-mouth filter. “As far as foreplay goes,” he says, “this is some pretty inspiring stuff.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; Phil’s hands freeze before he lets go of Clint entirely. The empty space at his back feels cold. Clint stands and carefully sets the cello aside, faces Phil and finds a guarded expression on his face. Coulson’s mastered the poker face, but Clint’s gotten used to seeing something more open and easily decipherable. 

He’s about to ask what Phil’s thinking when the agent says, “You should leave.”

Clint’s stare challenges. “Is that an order?”

“Do I need to make it one?”

“You know I’ve never been good at taking orders.”

“No,” Phil says calmly, as if he doesn’t notice the ridge between Clint’s legs or his own rigid posture, “but you’ve always been different with me.”

“Why do you think that is?” When Coulson doesn’t answer, Clint lays out the truth. “You always make the right call.”

“And now? I’m not making the right call?”

“You’re making the safe call,” Clint tells him, trying to salvage the situation. “Loosen up a little, Coulson. Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

Phil’s lip twitches, and Clint knows he’s in for it.

“Look, Barton,” Phil says in a tone that would freeze lava, “I’m not here for your amusement. If you’re looking for someone to sleep with, just to pass the time, there are plenty of options in this facility. There’s no need to keep knocking on my door—”

And Phil’s got it all so wrong that Clint blocks out the rest of what he’s saying, surges forward and kisses him. His aim is perfect, lips landing on Phil’s still-moving mouth and applying pressure until Phil stops talking.

But he’s not kissing back.

Clint sighs and softly breaks the kiss, bestowing one small lick to Phil’s upper lip as a promise to return. He doesn’t back away though; Phil can argue his words but he can’t argue what he’s sure to see in Clint’s eyes.

“I’m not looking for someone to pass the time,” he says. “I’m looking to have you _all_ the time.” Clint hopes there are no recording devices in Phil’s suite. Coulson’s a private man, so he doubts it, but he does not want anyone else to hear his suddenly harlequin seduction. “There’s no way I’d just go knocking on someone else’s door when I know you’re in here, playing the cello and looking gorgeous while you’re doing it. God, Phil—you have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?” Phil asks carefully.

This time, Clint lets Phil see the kiss coming and doesn’t force it. He waits for Phil’s mouth to open under his, tongue sliding forward to meet Phil’s in a warm, tentative dance that soon turns playful. Clint kisses Phil as if it’s his only opportunity to convince this man how amazing they’d be together. In the bedroom, that is—Clint thinks they’re already pretty damn good out in the field.

When Phil’s sufficiently wound up by the kiss (Clint can see it in his eyes now where the wall has fallen), Clint decides to answer his question.

“You have no idea how much I want you. The cello-playing, crossword-solving, straight-shooting guy who doesn’t mind me hanging around, being myself.”

Phil’s arms wrap low around his waist. “How’d you know about the crosswords?”

Clint smiles. “I’m a hawk, right? I watch.”

“Mmm,” Phil hums, mouthing along Clint’s jaw. Clint gets the impression that control of the situation is slipping out of his hands, and discovers he doesn’t mind much at all. “And is that all you plan on doing, Barton? Just watching?”

“No, sir,” he says, noting the way Phil shivers and filing it away for future use. “I’m gonna play _you_ , and trust me, you’ll sound a lot sweeter than that cello.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise Clint can be as cheesy as he is cocky. There are uses for each.

“Practice time is over, Coulson.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Phil says, using his hands on Clint’s hips to steer him towards the suite’s bedroom. “Practice is just getting started.”

#####

In his tenure with SHIELD, Clint has been asked to scale cliffs, perch on the narrowest ledge on the roof of a tall building. He’s climbed the Eiffel tower (man, was the French government pissed about that one) and swung from the scaffolding off an unfinished Hong Kong skyscraper. Needless to say, he’s had the pleasure of enjoying some amazing views.

But nothing has stolen his breath faster than the sight of Phil Coulson crawling up between his legs with his pants unzipped and hanging low on his narrow hips. The fabric of Phil’s slacks glides over Clint’s inner thighs, sensation sinking into his lower spine as Phil moves over him.

Clint’s naked on Phil’s bed—which isn’t the problem because he _loves_ being naked—but he wishes Phil would lose the pants, too, and indulge Clint with a lot of skin-to-skin contact.

“You’re still overdressed.”

“Am I?” Coulson whispers before skimming his lips across Clint’s collarbone. Clint rubs his cheek against Phil’s head, making a mess of his impeccably combed hair. Phil smells amazing; a combination of mint and eucalyptus and musk, and Clint drags his nose down to Phil’s ear, mouths around the top curve.

“Gonna let me touch you?”

“Be patient,” Phil says against his skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Hearing that, Clint shudders. Coulson is going to _ruin_ him for anyone else. But then that had been Clint’s plan coming into this thing. 

Since they’d stumbled into the bedroom, Phil’s done his best to render Clint a complete wreck, taking control of his senses, kissing Clint from lips to sternum and back up as he was stripped. Before Clint could even think about reciprocating, or at least manhandling Phil onto his back, Phil was stroking him off with a confident grip; he knew exactly how to touch Clint, and Clint began to wonder just how much he’d been watched by Coulson in turn over their last few assignments, and whether or not Phil had been watching secret recordings of him jerking off.

Given how quickly Clint painted Phil’s fingers with his come (and how his knees could barely take his weight afterwards), he wasn’t sure he minded.

Clint had barely been able to get his hands under Phil’s shirt, tearing the material when it wouldn’t give easily, before Phil was the one doing the _manhandling_ , making sure the bed was behind them when he tripped Clint’s feet out from under him and watched him fall back onto the mattress.

“Whatever’s gotten into you,” Clint had said, “I like it.”

And now Coulson’s on top of him, kissing his chest and teasing nipples with gentle hints of teeth. Phil plays the sensitive spaces between his ribs like piano keys, fingers drawing lower until they’re tapping a rhythm on Clint’s hipbones, and ignores every plea from Clint to go faster, dammit! Should have known Phil would only chuckle where his lips are poised over Clint’s navel. 

Bastard. A strong, attentive, sexually-fiendish _bastard_. If Clint’s not careful, he’ll fall in love after one night, and though he knows that’s inevitable, he’s always been the guy who enjoys the journey. He can imagine Coulson feeling the same way.

Clint loses his hold on his mind when Phil’s spine caves in and he finally— _finally_ —bends down and lets his mouth surround Clint’s balls, pushing the pair apart with his tongue and leaving streaks of saliva over each. Clint’s cock is throbbing, knocking against Phil’s forehead, desperate for a firm stroke or a wet, humid mouth. But Phil’s lips sweep over his sack, stopping to suck one or the other with teasing pressure. It’s enough for Clint’s body to feel heavier as the seconds tick past; a fuse burning faster as it closes in on detonation.

“Oh fuck—more! Please, Phil…” Broken words, utterly useless except to spoil Phil to the fact that he’s driving Clint crazy, and everything is good, good, so _motherfucking good_. His hands fist in Phil’s hair and push, as if he could force Phil to swallow him—roll around in that wet mouth and die of pleasure.

And then Phil stops and Clint bucks and keens until Phil surges up and falls on his lips, biting and caressing.

Phil’s passion comes from deep within, drawn out in Clint’s presence instead of something he’s responding to—a silent reassurance that Phil wants this just as much as Clint. And instead of making Clint feel weak, as if he’s only submitting to Coulson instead of acting on desires of his own, he’s powerful and whole. In him, Phil sees enough to throw propriety to the wind and fall, rigid exterior melting over Clint’s body.

Clint can’t hold back when Phil’s hand glides between their stomachs, fisting around his cock, fingers squeezing until he finds Clint’s trigger. (Clint will never be able to look at Coulson firing his weapon the same way again.) He never imagined being undone by someone else’s hand twice in one night, and if Phil’s this good now, Clint had better schedule more days off just in case Phil breaks him when they get to full-on sex later on.

His first thought after clawing out from behind the haze of orgasm is _Phil’s still wearing pants_. Deciding Phil will most likely try to get Clint off again before sacrificing the rest of his clothing, Clint catches him off guard. He locks his knees around Phil’s thighs, licking sweat from Phil’s temple as his hands delve beneath the offending slacks.

“Quick recovery,” Phil laughs (and that sound is better than anything Clint heard from the cello) as Clint uses his hands and legs to shimmy Phil’s pants down to his ankles.

“I’m full of surprises,” he says with plenty of sass, grinning when Phil kicks off his slacks. They slide off the bed and hit the ground with a thump.

“Shut up, Clint.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he agrees, but the light in his eyes must say differently, because Phil’s not surprised when he adds, “Can I please make you come? I want it all over my stomach, my dick. You can rub it in—mark me all up.”

Phil moans, “Fuck, Clint,” before he’s giving in to Clint’s desires, thick shaft frotting against Clint’s softening cock, making him wish he could force his body to go another round.

The weight of Phil’s body along his becomes tantamount. Clint raises his knees, cradling Phil between them, and closes his hips so that Phil can fuck into the groove of skin and muscle and bone, through sweat and come. His hands are tight over Phil’s shoulders, skin hot and protesting. Phil will be sporting finger-shaped bruises beneath his suit for the next few days, and when they fade, Clint plans on adding more. Wearing a matched set under his uniform—marks he can touch and _feel_ when he’s positioned high-up in the ten-story bunker hidden beneath Pegasus, nothing to see but the scurry of researchers and agents centered around the pulsing light of the Tesseract.

Phil comes while Clint’s sucking on his tongue, gasping into Clint’s mouth as his come leaks out all over Clint’s abdomen. In his sexual lifetime, Clint had rarely thought about submitting to a come bath; when the words slipped out earlier, it was a surprise. But covered in Phil’s semen, slick and swirled with his, Clint understands the intimacy. And it’s awesome when Phil looks down at his stomach and moans, one last pulse of come wrung from his cock.

If Clint’s going to be having sex with Phil on a regular basis (oh please, please, please), he’ll definitely need more time off. SHIELD will have no use for a sniper with constant hard-on and a head full of romantic thoughts.

#####

“Good practice,” Clint mumbles, loose limbed as Phil cleans them both with a warm, damp rag (it’s fitting, since Phil did all the work to get them this messy).

“Very good,” Phil agrees, sitting on the bed at Clint’s hip. Clint scowls when Phil doesn’t move to lie down, or touch him at all.

“Hey.” He reaches for Phil’s hand, curls his fingers into Phil’s palm. “I meant what I said before all this. I’m not going anywhere unless you kick me out.”

Phil sighs. “I might have to kick you out.”

“Why?” Clint asks, coordinating his jello-arms to help him sit up. “Tonight was”—he tries to come up with a word to cover everything that’s happened, everything Phil’s made him feel—“it was _epic_. Seriously, Phil. We’re fucking amazing together.”

“Exactly,” Phil says, lips curling into a smile. “If you stay, we’ll never get any sleep.”

Clint’s laugh is a blend of relief and affection. “I promise I’ll be good.”

Phil scoffs, but he slides towards Clint’s chest, stretching out. “That’s a lie, but I’ll accept it for now.”

“Make it an order,” Clint offers, nudging Phil with his shoulder. It’s still too warm in the room to making lying any closer uncomfortable, and Clint figures if he doesn’t give Phil his space, they really won’t be getting sleep tonight. “You know I actually listen to those, coming from you.”

Clint looks over, sees Phil’s eyes are already half closed when he smirks and says, “Except when you don’t.”

“Right. Except when I don’t.”

Phil grumbles something about not letting that happen again, but Clint listens with a grin on his face. He’ll buck anyone’s orders, even Coulson’s, for a payoff like this.

 

FIN


End file.
